


Pain is in the mind

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, It Gets Better, Limbo, M/M, POV Arthur, POV Eames, Pain, Pampering, Trauma, Violence, hero and sidekick, knife, pillowtalk, trapped together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 12:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11601099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: “Pain is in the mind, isn't that what they say?”“Yes, that’s what they say.” Arthur smiles; it’s sad and fleeting.





	Pain is in the mind

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third of my four-trope fics for an extra blackout bingo: hero and sidekick, trapped together, pampering, pillowtalk.
> 
> Thanks, as so often, to mycitruspocket and MsBrightsideSH for amazing brainstorming.
> 
> **Heed the warning and the tags, and see the (spoilery) end note if you want more detail before you read this.**

There’s a stabbing pain in his head and when he opens his eyes, there’s nothing to see, except a sort of bright mist, grey and sound-deadening, but with the suggestion of light behind it. He turns his head, ignoring the pain, towards the presence he can sense next to him.

Arthur’s eyes are open, but he is staring blankly past Eames’ shoulder. There’s a long slash across his forehead and a trickle of blood into the corner of one eye.

His breath stops and terror rises up, darkening his vision. Arthur can’t be? … is he? … he _cannot_ be …

Eames is up, on his knees, one hand on Arthur’s chest, the other on his face, his thumb wiping the blood away. His skin is still warm. “Arthur? Arthur!”

Arthur’s eyes flutter, the blankness replaced by pain. “E…?” His voice fades on the half-formed syllable, but it is enough.

“Shh.” Eames draws his thumb down Arthur’s cheek, smearing the blood. Arthur is lying on his side, his knees drawn up, one arm trapped beneath him, the other at an awkward angle behind his hips. Eames reaches for his hand, but he flinches.

“It’s okay, I won’t touch.” But surely he has to touch, to straighten Arthur’s twisted body? “Arthur? Can you move your arm?” _What a stupid question_. He’s not thinking straight past the the stabbing in his head. He cups Arthur’s cheek. And notices the stream of blood flowing down his own wrist. He pushes up his sleeve. There’s a deep, bloody weal where a restraint has apparently bitten into his flesh. What the fuck have they been through? He cannot force his mind back past the pain in his head; past the fog that’s in his brain, as well as outside.

Oh. Oh. Oh fuck. “Pain is in the mind.” How long till his brain turns to scrambled egg? How long till Arthur’s precious sharpness is dulled, blunted by pain and unending greyness? How long?

Panic joins pain. He can’t see, there’s nothing _to_ see. And now he can’t breathe, can’t think.

Arthur stirs. And that brings Eames back into himself. There’s nothing to see, except Arthur. Arthur is here. His face too pale, too bloodied, but his hair still dark, softened round his face, smudges under his closed eyes. There is nothing to feel, except Arthur. Arthur is here. His skin faintly warm. Eames moves his thumb to the pulse under his jaw, his blood is still pumping, slowly, through his veins.

“Arthur? Look at me, darling.”

Arthur’s eyes flutter open again and he is frowning at Eames; he turns his head slightly, dragging his mouth against Eames’ hand. It’s nothing, and everything. 

“I think we’re trapped … here.” He doesn’t want to name it, give it power. “I don’t remember how we … got hurt. Is there anyone to rescue us? I can't remember.” 

Arthur is still frowning up at him, but he seems to be following, to be trying to remember also. 

“But the thing is, love, we can't stay here. We will die here, and you know what that means, we’re so far down, we’ll fall even deeper.” Just saying it is making him shudder and he can feel panic start to rise again. He takes a deep breath, hating that its shakiness makes Arthur’s eyes widen in his own panic. “Shhh,” he says as much to himself as to Arthur, “shhh. We can do this. We can get back. We _will_ get back, together.”

Arthur nods and the corner of his mouth rises in a tiny half-smile.

The gash of his head is still oozing blood and stopping that feels like a good place to start. Eames sits back on his heels and starts to unbutton his shirt with clumsy fingers. 

“I'm going to make a bandage, okay? So the blood doesn't keep running into your eyes.” Arthur blinks, as if this has reminded him. 

The shirt sleeve sticks to his arm as he peels it off and he looks down. There’s an open gash on his shoulder that he wasn't even aware of. It’s mostly stopped bleeding, although pulling the ruined fabric away starts the flow again. Arthur pulls the arm he’s lying on free, wincing, and tries to reach up, but it’s a terrible angle and he can't. His other arm is still twisted behind his body. 

“I’m okay,” says Eames, again as much to reassure himself as Arthur, who twitches an eyebrow. “No, really.” His gesture of skepticism is incredibly heartening, somehow. He assesses the shirt: the sleeve is bloodied, but most of the rest is alright. Now he needs to tear it up. He tries, but his hands feel weak. 

“Nigh,” says Arthur.

“What’s that, love?”

“Nigh,” he says again, frowning, tipping his chin down.

It dawns on Eames that Arthur often carries a knife in an ankle holster, and sure enough, when he drops his hand, there it is, strapped to his leg. 

“Knife! Thank you, darling.”

Arthur gives him another quarter smile and Eames uses the knife to start a tear in the shirt fabric. He tears a strip off the bottom, and then a bigger piece that he folds to soak up something of the blood.

“I'm just going to bandage you now.” His hands shake as he puts the pad over the gash and ties it in place. It's a crap bandage made from a striped shirt, but it may stop the blood. “Gorgeous,” he tells Arthur, who raises another skeptical brow, and gestures to Eames’ shoulder, where the cut is still oozing. The weal around his wrist seems to have stopped. Bandaging his own shoulder is going to be tricky. He tears another square that he wads up and presses over the gash. Arthur’s brows draw together. “I know you would,” Eames tells him, “that’s okay, you can do it in a bit.” It’s a fiction, but possibly a necessary one. He wishes Arthur could say something, although his mobile face is expressive enough, especially to someone who knows it so well.

Eames lies down next to Arthur again, his hand flat on his chest, soothing them both. If only he could straighten that twisted arm.

He shuts his eyes, just for a second, just to try and calm the stabbing in his head, which tending to Arthur had made him forget a bit, but which has reasserted itself. He doesn’t know how they fell down; cannot remember why they were dreaming. Some dangerous job for dangerous people no doubt. He can't even remember if there’s anyone else on the team. Someone to get them out. They’ve taken to working as a two-man team, both of them versatile and able to do more than one job at a time. It means more flexibility and fewer questions. But it's probably arrogant and stupid. 

He feels warmth on his breastbone and opens his eyes. Arthur’s hand is on his chest and he’s staring intently. “Eames,” he says. His voice is faint, but he managed a whole word and that cheers Eames more than anything since they woke up to pain and nothingness. He puts his other hand over Arthur’s and they lie still, looking at each other. He can see Arthur thinking in the minute twitches of his brows, the way he squints and tightens his mouth.

“What are you planning, love? You’re coming up with something. Thank god.” 

Arthur takes a breath, as if he’s going to say something, but only manages: “Eames” again. His face is a mask of frustration. 

“It’s okay. Tell me later.” Eames squeezes his hand. Arthur’s eyes fall shut, and Eames strokes his hair, careful not to dislodge the ridiculous bandage, the pad he was holding on his own gash forgotten. 

_How the hell did they fall so deep? Can you escape Limbo on your own?_ _But of course, it’s not one person trying to escape on his own. And if we end up trapped here, provided we don't die, he’s here. It won't be unbearable. If he’s here._ He wishes he knew what is really wrong with Arthur, how serious was the blow that has knocked him out of himself. 

Eames is so thirsty, and his head is so painful. Experimentally, he tries to dream up a bottle of water. No bottle appears. He tries for a painkiller. Nothing. He closes his own eyes. At least time will pass if he sleeps. But then he is hit by the terrible fear that Arthur has a concussion and must be kept awake lest he ... He cannot. Eames will not allow it. He will keep Arthur with him, whatever it takes. He sits up, feeling sick as his head lurches. “Darling? Arthur? You can't go to sleep. Stay with me. You can't go to sleep and not wake up. Please. Please Arthur …”

Arthur opens his eyes and he’s frowning up at Eames. He stretches his hand up, and Eames gives him his. 

“Eames,” says Arthur, and his voice really does seem stronger now. _Thank god._ “Eames, I’m … not so … bad.” He squeezes Eames’ hand. Weakly, but it’s a squeeze. “Lie down with me,” says Arthur, “please, Eames?”

As Eames complies, Arthur sets his jaw and reaches behind, takes hold of his twisted arm and pulls it in front of himself. His face is a rictus of pain. “Fuck!” he says. He is panting and his face is sheened with sweat. He cradles his arm against his chest and closes his eyes. “Lie still with me?”

Eames shuffles carefully as close as he can without touching Arthur’s arm, and pushes his hair off his damp forehead. 

“I’m not dying,” says Arthur. “I’m not dying, but that’s fucking painful. Let’s just rest, eh?” He offers Eames another smile, about a half.

Eames nods. “Yes, love.” He closes his eyes. 

When he wakes, there is nothing more to see, just the same weird bright greyness; still only pain in his head. There’s no way of telling how much time has passed. But Arthur’s eyes seem clearer and his smile is more than half.

“Hello, Eames.”

“Hello, darling.”

Arthur is still cradling his arm. “Can you help me sit up?” he says.

Eames sits up, carefully, so his head doesn't lurch too badly, and tries to get his arm round Arthur’s back without jostling him. When he has him upright, he leans in and kisses him, as gently as he can. Arthur sort of gasps and deepens the kiss and Eames feels the most normal he has since this whole ordeal started. 

“Can I make a sling for your arm?” he says, at last. Arthur nods. There’s only the remnants of his ruined shirt to work with, but he binds Arthur's arm firmly across his chest, tying the sleeves behind his back. Arthur bites his lip but doesn't make a sound. He leans against Eames afterwards, breathing heavily. “How’s your head?” Eames asks. Arthur’s head has got to hurt, if his own is any indication.

“Kind of numb,” says Arthur. “How’s yours?”

“I wish it was numb. But then I suppose I’d be able to think even less clearly.”

Arthur lifts his left hand and cups Eames’ cheek. “You don’t have to think.”

But that just makes his breath catch in panic again. “I do! How are we going to get out? There’s no one up there to come get us, Arthur!”

“We’ll get out the normal way.” Arthur’s voice is calm. “Have you got a gun?”

“A gun?”

“To shoot us out.” 

“No! We can't do that! Down here.” He still doesn't want to name it out loud, as if voicing it will make his fear even more real. 

“Yes, we can. It’s never pleasant, but it works.”

“But … when I was going to shoot Saito?”

“He would have dropped into Limbo.” Arthur boldly names the fear; Eames tries to look away, he can't bear to look into Arthur’s eyes and talk about this. But Arthur turns his face back. “Look at me, Eames. That was because of Yusuf’s special Somnacin. It was the extra sedative. Not the Somnacin itself. We’re already here. We can't drop even deeper—”

“We can! If we die down here …”

“I promise you, Eames, that's not how it works. Do you trust me?”

Arthur, with blood on his face, bandaged in Eames’ shirt, still manages to look like himself, competent and sure. 

“Of course I do. But—”

“You trust me to get us out?”

“I trust you. And if it doesn't work, we’re still together.”

Arthur smiles at him. “It will work. And yes, we _are_ together.” Arthur kisses him again, and although Eames’ heart is still banging in his chest at the thought of what he has agreed to, he accepts the promise and the offered comfort.

“Okay,” says Arthur. “With no gun, it’s going to be a bit harder. I'm sorry, Eames, it’s not going to be easy. We have my knife.”

Everything in Eames wants to revolt against that notion. In Arthur’s hands, a gun is quick, certain. An end, whatever that might mean. But a knife … He forces himself to be calm, though; to sound calm, at least.

“Okay, whatever you say.”

“It’ll be alright. It won't take long. But it will hurt, Eames, there’s no way round that.”

“Pain is in the mind, isn't that what they say?” 

“Yes, that’s what they say.” Arthur smiles; it’s sad and fleeting.

“I can't do it, darling. I don't have your courage.”

“I’ll do it. I'll look after us.”

And that's the thing. People may think he looks after Arthur, but it's really the other way round. He knows it, and Arthur knows it.

Eames reaches behind himself for the knife and gives it to Arthur with shaking hands. Arthur’s hands tremble as well, but they are steadier. 

“Are you sure you’re strong enough? We can rest some more if you need.” Arthur was weak as a kitten just hours ago, and he only has one hand free.

“Eames, I was trained to do very bad things. You know that. I can do this. You just have to trust me.”

“I'm not worried about me.” _Because whatever happens, the last person I see will be a living, breathing Arthur._ He can't voice this fear out loud to Arthur, of what will happen to Arthur, after. “I trust you absolutely, darling.”

“Good,” says Arthur. 

There’s a pause during which they simply look into each other’s eyes. Eames watches emotions chase each other in Arthur’s.

Then: “Eames. You have to lean against me and hold on. You have to hold still. You can do that.”

“Because you can’t hold me still with only one hand.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Eames. The carotid is the best.”

So he leans his face on Arthur’s chest and grips his left shoulder, tilting his neck. He wishes he could look at Arthur. And he’s glad he doesn't have to. Arthur puts the knife down and places his hand, warm, on Eames’ neck, a light touch, and brief. He picks the knife up again.

“I'll see you so soon, Eames.”

“Yes darling. Don't be long.”

He’s looking down at Arthur’s lap when he feels it, a line of fire. He hears a sob, and then Arthur is drenched in blood.

*

After he has done the hardest thing he has ever had to do, Arthur can't afford to think before doing the second hardest. He brushes his hand down Eames’ face, closing his beloved, empty eyes. “I'm coming,” he whispers, his tears falling on Eames’ face.

He closes his own eyes before picking up the knife again and bringing it to his neck. His hand is shaking so much he almost drops it. His fingers are slick with blood. He puts it down and wipes his hand down his pants leg. 

Mindful of the need to follow Eames quickly, of the terror that will only rise the longer Eames is awake alone, he grasps the knife more firmly and brings it to his neck. One swift move is all he’ll get. It burns, _god it burns!_ and he feels but does not see his blood leave his body.

He wakes with a gasp, fighting against something, some weight. 

“Darling!” Eames’ voice is a rough whisper, as if he’s lost it screaming. “Arthur! Oh god, Arthur.” But it is Eames’ voice, and it’s the only sound he wants to hear.

He opens his eyes. Eames’ face fills his vision; his eyes are alive. Alive and filled with tears. 

“Hey! Eames, it’s okay. I'm here. We’re okay.” He reaches a hand up, and his fingers are soon wet. 

Eames clears his throat. “Of course you are.” He shifts his hand from Arthur's chest, reaches for Arthur’s wrist. His hands are shaking, but he extracts the cannula, stops the blood, lays the tubing aside. Arthur is sitting in an armchair, Eames crouching at his side. He runs his hands over Arthur’s shoulders, down his arms, back up to his neck. His hands are warm, dry, solid as he settles them, his thumbs resting on the vital pulsing of his carotid. Arthur sighs into the comfort, shudders at the fading recollection of that burning pain.

“We’re okay,” says Eames. “Thanks to your courage.”

“I did what needed to be done. What I—” 

“What I couldn't have.” 

“Does it matter who? No.” 

Eames lays his head in Arthur's lap, and Arthur pushes his hand into Eames’ hair, cupping the back of his head, and they are quiet together.

They’re alone. He can’t recall the job, if they were alone, or were sold out. It doesn't matter now. All that matters is Eames, and he’s here, his body uninjured. Arthur hopes he can help him heal from the other injuries he has suffered. And that Eames can help him heal. 

Eames stirs, looks up. “Let’s go,” he says. “Let’s go far away.”

Arthur has forgotten where they are. The room itself is bland, there are no sounds from outside. “Yes, let’s go.” 

Eames stands up from his crouch, groaning, and reaches down for Arthur’s hand. Pulls him up, into his arms and holds him. Arthur doesn't care where they go, as long as he can be here, in this circle.

Together they pack the PASIV, look round the room for anything they shouldn't leave behind.

“Can you remember the job?” says Eames. “Why are we alone? Where’s the mark? I got the feeling we didn't fall, we were trapped there, deliberately.”

“I don't,” Arthur admits. “Huh. Weird. But listen, we can figure it out another time. Let’s just get out now.” He picks up the PASIV case and reaches for Eames’ hand and they walk out the door together, down the stairs and into bright sunshine. 

They’re in Barcelona. And even though he can't recall the job, he turns down the street confidently and they walk to the tiny flat they’re renting, up several flights of steep stairs from a bakery. There’s no bread in the window, it must be late in the day. He just wants to go upstairs and fall into bed with Eames. So they climb the stairs, he behind Eames, and unlock the door and step into the tiny flat with the arched brick ceiling. 

“Do you want a shower?” 

Eames is standing just inside the door, shoulders slumped. “I should. But I don’t. Come to bed?” 

“That’s all I want.” 

The bedroom is shuttered and dim and they strip off their clothes and crawl into the sheets and turn to each other and just hang on. 

The feelings of the dream, the terror of Limbo and what they had to do to escape it, are still churning inside. _Will sleep dim them? Will the passing of time, real time, in all its banality?_

He tucks his head under Eames’ chin, his mouth on his unblemished neck, his fingers on his pulse, and grounds himself in his solidity and warmth and reality. He feels life pushing through Eames’ veins and tries to erase the images.

Eames’ hand is closed over his right shoulder, and he knows he’s doing the same, bringing himself back to the truth of Arthur, whole and outwardly undamaged.

“Thank you,” says Eames, his other hand in Arthur’s hair. “Thank you for having the courage to do that and get us out,” he says, as he had before.

Arthur tilts his head back into Eames’ touch. “I could, so I did. I was terrified,” he whispers into the skin stretched across his sharp collarbones. 

“Then what you did was even more heroic,” says Eames, into Arthur’s hair.

Arthur didn't feel heroic, slicing a knife into the neck of the man he loves, only sick. But he doesn't argue.

“I’m exhausted,” he says instead.

“Yes,” says Eames. And they fall asleep still clinging together.

But it seems real sleep cannot erase dreams gone wrong so quickly. Arthur wakes when the room is dark, weak streetlight filtering through the cracks between the shutters. He is sweating, still held in Eames’ arms. He lies still, waiting for his heartbeat to slow to normal, and when it does not, gets up to go to the bathroom. He pees, drinks water and decides to take a shower. Under the hot water, he feels a little calmer. He’s standing there, not thinking, when Eames pushes open the door that he didn't latch. 

He doesn't step under the water, just looks at Arthur, his forehead creased. Arthur turns fully towards him, guessing he may need to remind himself that they are not actually injured. After a long moment, Eames nods and comes closer, steps under the water too. Arthur steps back to give him room, but Eames grabs for him, backs him up to the wall, his eyes silently asking permission, and fits his bulk against Arthur's body. It’s very easy to kiss standing up, with their heights almost exactly the same. The water cascades down Eames’ back as he cages Arthur against the tile. It feels like a very intimate space the two of them share, the white noise of the falling water obliterating thought. Eames drops his mouth to Arthur’s neck, where there is no mark.

Often, this might end with one of them on their knees.

Arthur isn't sure that’s what he wants, so when Eames steps away, trailing his hands down Arthur’s chest, down his stomach, all the way to the evidence that he doesn't want that, and it’s obvious Eames doesn't either, he smiles and says: “Not now, I guess.”

“No,” says Eames. 

He hands Arthur a towel and dries himself off. Then, taking another towel from the shelf, he dries Arthur's hair, rubbing it, and then combing his hands through it. Arthur takes the towel, does the same for Eames’ shorter hair. Eames smiles at him, fond, with his eyes more than his mouth, and Arthur smiles back. It feels tentative on his face.

There’s a large clock in the open main room and Arthur sees when he leaves the bathroom that it’s only eight o’clock.

“Are you hungry?” says Eames, behind him. “I'm starving. I wonder what we can make?”

Arthur is hungry, of course he is, but the idea of going out into the busy nighttime streets, thronged with tourists and locals, had stopped him thinking about it. Eames offering to cook is different. He’s already opening the cupboards. “Yes,” he says, “I can make us supper.” All he has is a bulb of garlic, a bottle of olive oil and a package of spaghetti.

“Okay?” says Arthur, “I trust you.” 

“It’ll be good,” says Eames. “Come and get dressed.”

Back at the kitchen counter, dressed in loose trousers and a shirt left untucked, with the cuffs turned back, he slices several cloves of garlic and pours a generous amount of oil into a skillet. Soon the room is filled with the comforting smell of garlic cooking gently, water is boiling and Eames slides the pasta into the pot. Arthur can’t see how this is going to work..

Eames lifts the cooked spaghetti out of the water, drops it into the skillet and pours in some of the cooking water. “Wait and see,” he says, setting two bowls on the counter and swirling the pan for several minutes. He pulls a piece out and tests it. The sight of the strand of pasta slipping into his mouth is honestly the best thing Arthur has seen in hours. “Ready,” he says, filling the bowls. He hands one to Arthur and leads him to the couch. It smells delicious. 

It tastes creamy and comforting and gentle. “How is this so good?” Arthur almost groans as he tastes it. “That’s … amazing.”

Eames smiles, a proper, wide smile. “Magic, isn’t it?”

Afterwards, warmed and soothed by the food, Arthur says: “What now? It’s not late.”

“Will you let me pamper you?” says Eames, holding out his hand to Arthur.

“I still—”

“No, I know. I just want … I need … to look after you. Let me?”

“Yes please.” He lets Eames pull him to his feet and circle his arm around Arthur’s back and tip their foreheads to together. Eames takes his hand and leads him back to the bedroom. Arthur sits on the bed while Eames gets something out of a drawer. Then Eames says: “May I give you a massage?”

He wants Eames’ touch and he’s not even sure why he’s been hesitating, but Eames has understood precisely. “God yes,” he says, tugging his T-shirt over his head and pushing his jeans and underwear down his hips. “You just happened to pack massage oil?” 

“Well, you never know. Aren't you glad?”

“Mmmm.” Arthur crawls up the bed and lies down on his stomach, turning his head to watch Eames. He has taken off his shirt and pants, but not his underwear. He crawls after Arthur, knees on either side of his legs. 

The oil splashing onto his back is cool, and Arthur shivers. “Sorry.” Eames voice is a soft rumble. His hands spread the oil from the small of Arthur’s back up to his shoulders and back down; up, and back; up, and back, in a gentle rhythm. Eames isn't leaning into this, he’s not working out knots, it’s connection, pure touch. Arthur is almost in a trance when Eames starts to talk, very quietly. 

“I thought I was going to lose you down there. I thought you were going to die from whatever scrambled your wits. I thought I'd be left alone down there.” His hands don't pause in their sweeping. “I thought we’d fall and keep falling. It was so … deadening. Grey … I thought that’s what it’d be like forever …”

Arthur reaches behind and stops Eames’ hand on his hip. “I know.” 

“I forgot everything I knew. I know how it works. How to get out. I know that. But I forgot. I thought you were already gone when I first saw you.” 

“I know. I wasn't so afraid, because when I woke up, you were there. So I knew it would be alright.”

He needs to see Eames properly. “Let me sit up?” he says, and Eames moves off him. He sits up and faces Eames. “You were there. That’s all that mattered. And you looked after me—”

“But I couldn't—”

“Does it matter who did what? You looked after me, I did what I could. And here we are.”

“Yes. You’re the hero though.”

Arthur is about to argue, but decides to hold his tongue, if this is what Eames needs. He leans forward and kisses him, gently, and then more insistently. Eames’ patience has brought him back to himself, to them. But Eames pulls back and looks at him, forehead wrinkled in question, in confusion. And now Arthur understands.

“Eames,” he says, “I know seeing me like that was frightening, but you know I wasn’t actually, really, hurt. You know that. So let me look after you now?” And he leans in and grabs Eames’ shoulders and straddles him, pushing him backwards onto the mattress, his fingers digging in. Eames’ eyes widen in surprise, but then he pulls Arthur down and kisses him, hard.

Arthur sits up and hooks his thumbs in the band of Eames’ underwear and tugs them down. He shuffles back, pressing Eames’ thighs apart, and trails his hands up the tender skin, scratching lightly. He glances up, into Eames’ eyes, gone very dark and intent, and back down, and kisses his way up his cock. He’s not hard, and neither is Arthur, but there’s plenty of time. 

By the time Eames _is_ hard, filling Arthur’s mouth, his hips jerking as he tugs on Arthur’s hair, just this side of painful, Arthur is too. He pulls off.

“Fuck!” 

“Yes,” says Arthur, leaning over to the nightstand for the lube. “Exactly,” clicking the bottle open. 

This is something they both need, to bring them back to their true selves, unafraid. 

He doesn't take his eyes off Eames as he slowly prepares him —tender, intent — till Eames is shaking and silently begging. He doesn't take his eyes off Eames as he enters him. Eames lets a deep, shuddering breath go and he’s clutching at Arthur’s wrists, anchoring them even more firmly together, his legs holding Arthur in their own grip and he doesn't even say Arthur’s name, they’re beyond words, beyond thought, there’s nothing except their deep, deep connection. But he doesn't go slow and gentle now, Eames needs to feel his strength, his vital energy, his control. And as he feels himself near to the edge, he waits, waits … and feels Eames right there with him … and they come, together, perfectly together, in a way that they have never yet been.

When they have both returned to themselves, Eames pulls Arthur down onto his chest and they hold each other, just breathing, just listening to each other’s hearts, beating true and strong. 

**Author's Note:**

> To escape Limbo, you have to die. In many fics, that's not dwelt on too much. In this fic, it's one of the main points. There is pain, and blood. It's quite graphic, but not gratuitous. Someone has to commit the violence on the other and on himself.  
> BUT IT'S IN A DREAM.  
> However, there's emotional fallout. And comfort.   
> It doesn't end in a bad place.


End file.
